


Namedays

by Magali_Dragon



Series: Live in the New World [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dany has her family, F/M, Fluff, Jon Snow is Happy, Jon and Dany are the bestest parents, So much sweetness you'll break your teeth, Targlings (ASoIaF), Targlings get their dragons, fluffiest fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-09-25 22:53:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20379454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon
Summary: How the Targaryen children get their dragons.





	1. Lya & Daenys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Jon wake to quite a surprise for Lya's nameday.

"PAPA!”

“AVE!”

“KEPA!”

“Mai! Muñnykeā!”

Jon literally flew out of the bed, stumbling as the sheets tangled around his legs, grabbing for the dagger that was hidden in his boot, which was kicked halfway under the bed. He ran down the hall, dagger aloft and burst into his daughter’s room, holding it up, prepared to fight any danger that threatened them. 

His heart was pounding in his ears and a cold sweat trickling from the base of his neck to the base of his spine, fearing the worst at the screams from his children. He paused, the dagger still in his hand and then feeling cold steel hit his back as Dark Sister pressed against him, Dany right on his heels. He stared at the room, sweeping his gray eyes from the windows to the doorway to the balcony and then to the three little heads that were bobbing in front of the hearth. 

Behind him, Dany muttered in Valyrian. “What the seven hells is going on here?” she asked, as if he we were supposed to know. 

They had been enjoying their sleep, a bit of a long respite he’d thought the gods had granted after a very long day of training, flying, and in his case, hunting. Dany had spent most of her day making oils and salves and the like from her garden. They both had to break up at least five arguments between the children, which sometimes he thought was worse than battling an Army of the Dead, given how vicious they could get. The children tended to breathe fire, so to speak; at least the dead didn’t do that.

And now he’d been woken from that nice slumber, with his lovely wife curled around him in their warm bed, and was standing in his trousers and no shirt, holding a dagger while said lovely wife stood behind in his tunic, holding an ancient Valyrian steel sword above her head. “Do you mind,” he asked, noticing how close it was to his neck. 

“Oh, sorry.” She lowered it, but still not too much. She swept the room herself, walking around him. “What is happening? Why did you scream for us? Are you all okay?” 

It was their island, they had to be okay, he thought, striding to the window and pushing one open, peering out. There was nothing. Eddarion was lying on his back like a dog, bits of fire snorting from his nostrils as he slumbered. He frowned, closing the window and locking it for good measure, turning to the children. “Never scream like that again unless someone has a knife to you,” he said to them.

The three little faces peering from the fire only frowned, each one a miniature of their mother’s scowl. “But Papa if someone has a knife to us, would we be able to scream?” his ever so bright daughter wondered.

Dany smiled in his direction. “Well Papa?” she echoed.

It was his turn to scowl. “Nevermind. Why were you screaming anyway?” He knelt at the fire, looking over their heads to see what had their attention this late at night. He sighed at the three eggs that were lined up in the brazier. “Your eggs?”

“They’re breaking!” little Joran exclaimed, pulling on his hand. The youngest was only three and barely uttered a word most days, but here he was so excited he was downright chattering. He pointed again. “See!”

He looked at the three and then to Lyanndei, who was hiding her hand. “Lya.”

“Hmm?” She pretended she didn’t hear him, too busy focusing on the eggs. To his eyes, they didn’t seem to be breaking. 

“What happened to your hand?”

Dany let out a yelp and tackled her daughter, grabbing her hand and exclaiming at the cut. “Lya! Did you cut yourself? How did you do that?”

“Um….Uncle Tormund gave me a knife.”

“He what!?” he exclaimed. Fucking Tormund, he would kill him. The man was currently sleeping off a good bit of wine he’d had at dinner in the barn, his usual location when he stayed on the island. He would give him a swift kick in the arse when he woke him up tomorrow morning. Or maybe he’d just have Eddarion set the barn on fire. He grabbed the knife that Lya was trying to hide under her nightdress. It was a short little thing, barely dull enough to peel an apple and yet it had done the trick and sliced her hand. 

He sighed. “Why did you cut your hand on purpose?” But he knew why. 

“Look,” Dany breathed, her arms around Aemon, who had been quiet and solemn. In the dim light of the fire, his silver hair shined like the moon, matching his mother’s. Their violet eyes were almost indigo, alight at the sight before them. 

He watched, Joran in his arms and Lya straining over, almost sticking her head into the fire as one of the eggs began to unfurl. It had several deep cracks, but now he watched as the cracks peeled out into two very thin deep purple wings, silver shining in the tiny spider leg like veins of the wings. A little head popped up and turned, a vibrant purple eye turning towards them. 

Lya squealed, at the same time as the dragon, which fell out of the brazier and onto the hearth. She reached for it and the dragon hatchling hopped straight into her arms. “Mine!” she shouted, cuddling the hatchling, which ducked its head under her chin. “She’s mine! My egg hatched!”

Gods, he thought, he could never get tired of seeing a dragon hatch. He looked over at Dany, who was thinking the same, her face shining with pure bliss as she watched her daughter with her dragon. He looked down at Joran, who seemed disappointed, his sky blue egg still intact. It wasn’t time yet, he thought. He checked his son’s hands, making sure Lya hadn’t stabbed him for his blood, relieved to see she had just stuck with her own.

Aemon also seemed perturbed. “What about mine?” he demanded, reaching his hand in to touch the black and red egg. “I want it to hatch.”

“It isn’t time yet.”

“But how come it was Lya’s time? All she did was cut herself and drop blood on the egg.”

Royal blood, he thought, looking down at Lya. She was the firstborn of a king and a queen. It held power. Not yet though, he thought, looking at his two sons. They all were too young for the responsibility being a prince or princess entailed. He sighed, coming to stand, lifting Joran up with him and hitching the three-year old onto his hip, the little one yawning and resting his dark head against his shoulder. “Because I guess it just was her time,” he answered.

Of course Dany had a better answer. “The dragons know when it is their time,” she whispered to Aemon, brushing his silver curls from his head. “And their rider knows when it is their time. Lya decided that tonight she would make it the time and it was.” She looked over at Lya and nodded. “I take it you did this for your nameday.”

Lya nodded in confirmation. “I’m gonna’ be nine years old.”

He glanced at Aemon, who was mulling this. His nameday was not too far away and he would be five. They were growing too fast, he thought, brushing his lips against Joran’s forehead. The babe, for he would always be their babe, was sucking on his fingers, having fallen asleep despite the excitement. He looked at the hatchling, the purple scales still shimmering like a jewel, but dulling slightly. “The hatchling needs to eat,” he said.

Dany took the hatchling from Lya, who stomped her foot in protest. They began to argue in Valyrian over who would hold the new dragon and feed it, so he left them to their arguments, guiding Aemon out of Lya’s bedroom and across the hall into the one he shared at the moment with Joran. At least until Tormund could finish helping him with the rest of the extra rooms they were building onto the cottage. “Get in bed,” he said, nudging Aemon to the little cot, the blankets all tangled. 

“No, I want to see the dragon,” Aemon protested.

“You’ve seen dragons.” He picked up a stuffed knitted toy from Gilly. “Here. Here’s a dragon, go to sleep.”

“No, not tired!” On cue he yawned and then shoved his face into his pillow. “I’m not tired,” he mumbled, the pillow muffling his protest. His direwolf, as large as the bed, a silver and white aptly named Zolka, jumped up and stretched out next to him. Joran’s black direwolf, Bear, was already asleep beneath his crib. 

He wondered where Moonlight was, his daughter’s wolf no doubt being irritated about the new addition to the menagerie. He sat on the edge of the bed, still holding Joran and rubbed Aemon’s back until the little boy’s breath evened in sleep. Jon sat there for a long time, not wanting to get up just yet. 

The intense panic at them yelling for him earlier had faded and replaced with the contentment and awe he still felt at knowing they were his. Sometimes he wondered if they were in fact his children or if it was just a cruel trick of the gods. If he would wake up one morning and be at the Wall or in his tiny room in Winterfell and everything that had ever happened to him had been a dream. He reached his fingertips and touched Aemon’s heart, satisfied at the thump beneath that it was real. 

He looked like his mother; the wolf-like features of his time as a baby haven’t changed into the dragon. Meanwhile Joran looked as though he would never develop silver hair or violet eyes, a miniature version of himself. He kissed his son’s head and carried him out of the room, not wanting to put him down just yet. He went down the stairs and found Dany feeding some charred meat to the new babe. Lya was passed out on a chaise. 

He pointed to their daughter. “I thought she would be feeding the hatchling?”

“Of course she isn’t. Much like they don’t feed their wolves or take care of them or clean after them,” Dany complained, but he knew it was all for show. She would do anything to ensure the children were happy. She smiled at the hatchling, which swallowed a piece of cooked meat and seemed to shine a bit brighter. “I’ll put her in one of the crates we have left over from when Moonfyre and Vermithor were hatchlings.”

“And I was looking forward to giving her, her nameday gift,” he said, smiling as Dany collected the hatchling and carried her to the room at the back of the house. He thought of the belt and training sword he had made for Lya. She would still be pleased with it, even if it wasn’t a dragon. 

He waited until Dany came back, holding the hatchling, now sleeping in the carrier. She set it by the fire in the kitchen, so it could stay warm, and traded with him, taking Joran while he scooped up Lya. He carted her up to her room and set her in her bed, Moonlight padding in from wherever she had been hiding. He looked at the other two eggs in the fire. Soon enough, he thought, taking Joran from Dany. 

“Don’t put him to bed just yet,” she sighed, stroking his curls. “I want to hold him a bit longer while he will still let me.”

He smiled and kissed her forehead. “Same.”

They returned to their room and Joran settled on the mattress between them, his fingers still in his mouth and his other hand flung out to his side. He dragged his finger over Joran’s little nose, smiling when it wrinkled in his sleep. He rested his head on the pillow, gazing over at her, meeting her violet eyes. “What’s wrong?” he whispered. 

She sniffed and he realized she had been silently crying. “They’re just getting so big. They have their wolves and now they will have their dragons. Each nameday they get bigger and bigger and we get older and older.” She hugged Joran. “I wish they would stay babes forever.”

Me too, he thought. He smiled a little. “No more nappies though.”

She laughed. “Well that is a relief I suppose.” She sighed, shaking her head. “My mother was with child many times. Many stillbirths, many losses before she even knew she was with child…my sister only lived for a few days before she died. And in all of that she only had three that lived.” 

He knew where she was getting and shook his head. “Dany no,” he warned. His heart clenched as he took her hand into his, kissing her knuckles and squeezing. “I have almost lost you three times. Almost lost the babes three times. I will not do it again.”

“I know,” she said. She shook her head. “It is hard to bring a Targaryen into the world. It is hard to raise them. Hard for them to grow up.” She took a deep breath. “Sometimes I wonder each year if I will reach my nameday and then I do and then I hold by breath for the next.”

It was the same with him. The realms had been quiet these last couple of years but there were always problems. Sometimes there were minor wars, people disgruntled with their position and trying to affect a new one. Other times magic reared its head, reminding them that there was something greater in the world than themselves. He kissed her hand again. “We’ll have hundreds of namedays,” he vowed. “And as for the children, we have them Dany. That is enough for me.”

She smiled, nodding. “Yes. We have them.” She kissed Joran’s head and then lifted hers, watching as a tiny figure padded over, clutching a stuffed dragon and climbed in. Jon grunted as the figure stepped on his stomach and a hand poked him in the eye, getting settled between them. Aemon pushed at Joran so he could get close, still asleep. 

It didn’t take much longer before the other one came in. He bit his lip as Lya stepped on him-- why did they never step on Dany?—settling herself down between them as well. He wondered if the wolves would join, but Ghost, the old boy himself, seemed to have forced them to submit to the floor while he took up the rest of the bed. 

Gods all we need is the dragons, he thought, knowing somewhere outside Eddarion was sleeping and Drogon likely patrolling the skies. He looked over at Dany, his fingers dragging through her curls, left free and loose over her shoulders. She was asleep, his goddess, her small hand curled over the children, hugging them protectively. 

He realized then that it wasn’t just Lya’s nameday that week. It was likely beyond midnight, the moon more than halfway to the horizon. He smiled, looking up at the ceiling and then out the window to the stars. Happy Nameday Jon, he thought to himself, sighing as he cuddled his family against him. There was no greater gift to reward him for somehow getting older.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter the Targs are:  
Lya- 8 turning 9 (on her name day)  
Aemon- 4 (almost 5, he always insists :D)  
Joren- 3
> 
> There’s about four years between the first two and a year-ish between the second two.
> 
> Dany is warly 40s here (if she was early 20s when she died); Jon is same (I think there’s like a year difference between them)


	2. Aemon & Aegorax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Aemon's turn to hatch his dragon, just in time for his nameday.

“Lya!” 

Aemon fell backwards into the mud, scowling at his older sister as she swept over his head on her dragon, Daenys screeching and rising up to graze her talons over the top of the trees. He rubbed at his head, mussing his silver hair, and got back up to his feet, looking at his father, who was waiting patiently for him to right himself before he took on a stance again. 

And then his sword went flying from his hand. It landed with a heavy ‘thud’ on the hardpacked earth beside him. He whipped around to the offender who had knocked it loose. He growled. “Not fair!”

“Swordplay isn’t fair,” Papa said. He flipped his sword around in his hand. “Again.”

That was all he had heard all morning long. Papa knocking the sword free. _Again._ Papa sending him falling backwards into the mud. _Again._ Papa hitting him with the sword and bruising his arms, legs, side, or everywhere he was able to hit. _Again._ He was so sick of it! He stomped over to get his sword, just as Bear came barreling out of the forest, knocking him down again. He let out a roar akin to a dragon, getting back up and swinging out his wooden training sword at the direwolf, who only barked and then took off again, chasing after one of the other wolves. Was this just his day to always fall down? “I hate this,” he mumbled. He turned back to face his father, and his mouth falling open as his father grabbed the sword, jerking it hard from his hand. “Hey!”

“Never,” Papa said, his gray eyes darkening and holding the sword up. He was dead serious, his voice soft, which always scared Aemon. It was worse than Mama when she yelled. Aemon swallowed hard, backing slightly away from his father. “Never strike an animal unless you intend to kill it.” He paused, continuing to stare at him for a moment, assessing. He nodded curtly, voice hard. “We’re done for today.”

“But Papa!”

“No, you are in no shape to be practicing, not with an attitude like that.” 

I hate you, he thought darkly. Aemon growled, turning and storming away from his father. He went up to his room and grabbed his dragon egg, taking it back down, along with a pack. He gathered up some food from the kitchens and then took Zolka with him, his gray and brown wolf trotting at his heels. He stuck his tongue out at Joran, who was sitting at the table out front with Mai. His little brother stuck his tongue back out too. Mai glanced at him as she was binding herbs. “Going somewhere?” 

“I’m running away.”

“Oh really? Where?”

“Anywhere but here.”

“What brought this on?” Mai asked, not at all interested in his defection from the family. She merely glanced sideways from her work, smiling gently. It seemed like she was amused. This is not amusing, Aemon thought angrily. Stop smiling! She darted her eyes towards Papa, who was putting away the training swords in the barn. “Does this have something to do with why Papa stopped training you early?”

He sniffed. “Papa is being mean.”

“Hmm, I’m sure.” She glanced up at Lya, calling out. “That’s enough with Daenys now, Lya! Put her down!” 

Lya was almost twelve and he was going to be nine and his dragon still hadn’t hatched yet. His nameday was in a few weeks, he was keeping track, because Papa said if he was good they could go visit Auntie Arya at Winterfell and then they could go to the Iron Islands and see Queen Yara, who promised to show him the boats and to let him watch an execution. But Papa didn’t know that part yet.

He called out to his mother, still holding his pack and his egg. “I’m running away,” he reminded her.

“Okay my sweet.”

“You’ll never see me again,” he vowed, lifting his chin. 

“Hmm…bye, bye then.”

“Bye!” Joran yelled, waving.

Argh! He stomped away from the house, making his way down the hill and past the weirwood tree. He kept going, into the forest and away to the edge of the island, where he could see as far as Braavos. Or so he thought sometimes. He wanted to see everything, but Papa and Mai kept them on the island as much as possible. Sometimes they went to Valyria, but not for very long. When he did go to Valyria, he couldn’t watch the council meetings. Mai made him stay locked away.

I want to be a king one day, he thought, setting his egg down in a pit of dirt. He had created a bit of a nest in this part of the forest, with a tent and a firepit and a place where he stored his food. He opened the box and dumped some of the fruit he’d stolen from the kitchen and took a bit of bread, chewing on it thoughtfully as Zolka came around to face him, expecting a piece. He shared his ration with the wolf, which sniffed his nose at it, slightly disgusting with just bread, but ate it anyway.

He lit a fire, the way Papa showed him, with the flint, and watched the fire rise around the egg. His egg was bright red, like the color of the dragon on Mama’s banners. There was a thread of black through the sides though and on the top. He wanted to know what the dragon was like inside, but it seemed his dragon refused to be born. He had tried every year, dropping blood on it like he had seen Lya do with hers. 

And every year nothing happened.

Lya got the first dragon, the first direwolf, and she was the oldest. She got _everything_ and he got _nothing_. Especially because whatever stuff Lya didn’t get, Mai and Papa gave to Joran, the stinky baby. Although Joran wasn’t that much of a baby, he was going to be eight soon. He was closer to him in age than Lya at least.

He sighed. He didn’t do anything right. Aemon, don’t make a mess of the kitchen. Aemon, stop lighting the grass on fire. Aemon, you aren’t holding your sword right. Aemon, you aren’t riding your horse correctly. Aemon, stop bothering the wolves. Aemon, focus on the target. Aemon, you didn’t do your reading. Aemon, that isn’t you how translate that, do it again.

Aemon, Aemon, Aemon.

He scowled and pulled out one of the books he had to read, Mai was teaching them about the Targaryen history. He was reading through all the Aegons and the Jaeherys and the…Aemon! He sat up and looked at the writing cramped into the corner of the book’s page. He cocked his head and turned it slightly, making out the scribble in Common Tongue. Only Papa wrote in Common Tongue, Mai only ever wrote in Valyrian.

_You might want to focus on this part. I named you after Maester Aemon._

Maester Aemon Targaryen? He pulled the book closer to his nose, reading the paragraph about the man who should have been king, but who stepped aside for his brother to be king. He frowned, reading it a few times. Aemon Targaryen was the son of Maekor. Brother to Aegon V. He did not want to be involved in a war for the throne, so he went to the Wall. To serve as a Maester of the Citadel. He watched as his father died, his brother died, and his nephew died. He stayed there and did his duty as his entire family fell around him. 

He turned the page, looking at the writing at the top again. _A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing._

He frowned and closed the book, his stomach hurting a little. He was a Targaryen. He was alone in the world. Everyone forgot about him. It was always about Lya or about Joran. Never Aemon. He was always in trouble or they never remembered him. He was five and once his mother left on Drogon with his siblings and Papa completely forgot him, almost taking off on Eddarion before remembering that he was still in the house. 

I’ll show them one day, he thought darkly. I can be the greatest of all them! He turned to look at Zolka, who cocked his head and whined a little. He sighed and looked at his egg. It was shining red, like a dying sun. He turned onto his stomach and kicked his feet in the air, staring at the flames around the egg. Like his mother, he could stand the fire. Joran couldn’t and neither could Lya. Not like he could. 

He reached into the fire and played with some of the embers around the bottom of the egg. As he drew his hand back, he hissed, cutting his finger on a sharp piece of wood, a splinter embedding itself in the skin. He mumbled, drawing back his hand and reaching to suck on the splinter, trying to pull it out, and as he did, he didn’t notice the egg beginning to smoke.

Zolka noticed it first, whining and barking, coming up onto all fours and growling at the fire. He glanced at the egg, eyes widening at the smoke coming from around the egg. “What…” he trailed off, staring at the egg. His mouth fell as the egg cracked and suddenly two wings came out from either side, a tiny bumpy black spine appearing where there used to be a single black stripe down the side of the egg. The wings spread out and he could almost see through the thin membranes and stared at the tiny black threads that crept out to the dull claws. The tiny head turned, peering over at him and bright red eyes blinked. 

They looked like the red eyes of Ghost, but they were more fire than haunting. He grinned, his violet eyes lighting and he held out his hand, heart beating so loud he could feel it throughout his entire body. The dragon sniffed and opened its tiny mouth, gumming at his knuckle. He giggled, reaching and the dragon made a sound like a small child crying, before hopping into his open palms. It weighed less than even the egg did and was about the size of a kitten. 

He cuddled the dragon against his chest, stroking the top of its bumpy head, knowing one day those bumps would become a spiny frill and the wings would spread to cover the expanse of villages. The eyes would darken and become all seeing and one day the soft, velvety hide would be as hard as Valyrian steel and just as impenetrable. “You are mine,” he murmured, stroking the back of the dragon and pressing his cheek to the dragon’s tiny face. All mine. 

Mine. No one else’s. Not Mai’s, not Papa’s…mine. 

And he didn’t want anyone else to share in his happiness. So Aemon hid the dragon away in the cave, promising he would be back soon, and he ran off and back to the house. No one paid him attention—typical. He bypassed Lya and Joren, who were climbing up one of the trees where Papa had built them a house. He ducked into the house, avoiding his Mai and Papa who were-- gross! They were kissing! He made a face at them, but they paid him no attention as they kissed in the kitchen, and he slipped out the back and to the pit where the boar was cooking for their dinner. He reached into the fire and pulled off a hunk of it and ducked back into the forest, hurrying to his dragon. 

He fed the dragon, knowing that he would need to start teaching it commands like how Mai used with the other dragons. Daenys already knew basics. He smiled down at the dragon. “_Dracarys,_” he murmured. The dragon blinked up at him, but did not open its mouth. We’ll work on that, he thought with a smile.

There was a basket in the tent and he kept the dragon there to protect it. He did not want them to take the dragon. The dragon loved him and he could take care of it without Mai or Papa or his dumb brother and sister. He returned to the house and no one even asked him how come he was back! He looked at both his mother and father, who were sitting in front of the fireplace in the house that evening. Papa was cleaning Longclaw and Mai was reading a series of letters. “I am back,” he announced.

“I was wondering why you skipped supper,” Mai said.

Papa barely looked up from Longclaw. “Where were you?”

“I ran away.”

“On an island?” he questioned.

Aemon scowled and grit his teeth. “I am going to bed.”

“Have a sweet sleep,” Mai called. Papa merely nodded and returned to working on the sword. He growled and stormed off. They really did not seem to understand! He thought of his dragon and smiled. He would go back to it tomorrow. 

Aemon returned several times over the next few days, spending as much time as possible with his dragon. He brought him meat and taught him words and after at least two weeks, his dragon had managed to spit out a bit of smoke to cook his meat. Zokla seemed afraid, but kept close to him. He carried the dragon all through the island, to all his favorite places. 

After at least three weeks he found himself wandering along a part of the cliffs where he was not really allowed to go. Papa said that it was changing and the rocks might fall, so he could not go without an adult. I am an adult, he wanted to say, because I have a dragon and I can take care of him myself! He held up his dragon, studying the bright red eyes. “What should I call you?” he asked him.

The dragon chirped. Aemon cuddled him back to his chest, stroking the dragon’s back and did not watch his step. He felt the grass beneath his boot give away and his knee went out from under him. He shouted, surprised, and the dragon clutched to his chest with one hand. He stumbled and lost his footing again, shouting as the ground seemed to just keep falling and he went tumbling down the side of the cliff. He closed his eyes tight, crying out in pain and fear, trying to keep the dragon tight against him so it didn’t get hurt. 

When he landed, he landed hard on stone and hard dirt and he felt his breath give out from him. He swallowed hard, trying to come back into his body from wherever his mind had gone as he tumbled down the cliff. He looked up, blinking through tears and the sharp pain in his ankle. Zokla was barking, his alerts coming deep from his chest, and whining as he dug around the edge, trying to find a way down to him. 

Aemon sniffed through the tears, embarrassment, and pain. “Go home!” he shouted, his voice weak. He cried out as he tried to move, his ankle too hurt to move. He crumpled in place, peering out over the edge of the ledge, staring down at the churning black waves and rocks below. He was scared. He looked back up, waving his hand. “Go Zokla! Go find someone!”

Zokla barked again and let out a sad howl, before he took off; Aemon could hear his feet kicking on the ground, the heavy wolf steps fading as he ran back to the house. He hugged the side of the ledge, still holding his dragon, who had made no sound since the fall. He nuzzled it and got a little mewl from the creature. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, sniffing. “I’m sorry.”

The sun began to go down and Aemon felt cold. He had not brought his flint with him and there wasn’t enough to start a fire. He dug into the side of the cliff, which already had a bit of an alcove, trying to stay as far from the cold wind off the sea. He kept his dragon inside of his coat; grateful at least he had decided to wear that instead of just the padded tunic he wore beneath. He looked at the dragon and set him down on the ground. The dragon peered up, blinking, as though expecting something. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any food.” He looked up at the hole he’d fallen through and did not see anything but the moon. 

He was cold and tired and hungry. His ankle throbbed and he wiped at the tears that made their way down his face. He should have listened to Papa, to stay away from this part of the island, but he thought he could do whatever he wanted. He had a dragon now! He was Aemon! He sniffed and looked out over the dark ocean. Somewhere he could hear dragons screaming. 

At some point he fell asleep, fitful, and woke with starts throughout the night, scared that he might roll off the side and into the rocks beneath or that the dragon might wander off. He ended up staying awake as the sun rose over the water’s edge and that’s when he saw. 

Eddarion! The great black and white dragon that belonged to his father was streaking across the sky, screaming loudly, like he was in pain. He tried to stand, but couldn’t, so he simply yelled as loud as he could, waving his hand. He lifted his bright red dragon, hoping that Eddarion could sense the other creature. The dragon made sounds as well, as loud as he could, which wasn’t very much. 

“I’m here!” he yelled, waving. He watched as Eddarion moved closer to the cliff. “Papa!”

The dragon came to the side, gripping the cliff and sending Aemon grabbing for the dirt, it felt like the entire island was shaking. Eddarion cried again, a horrified, pitiful sound and then released another noise that sounded like he was relieved, the pain he was feeling fading. “Aemon!” a voice bellowed. 

He reached up as Papa scrambled off Eddarion and jumped onto the ledge, falling to his knees and grabbing for him. He sniffed. “I’m here,” he said, reaching for his ankle. “It hurts, I think I broke it.”

“Gods,” Papa kept saying, muttering beneath his breath as he felt around Aemon’s ankle and then began to pat down the rest of him. “Are you hurt anywhere else? Walkers take me, Aemon, you scared me to death! Your mother is terrified! We thought someone…” he trailed off and swallowed hard, his gray eyes wide and filled with unshed tears. 

Aemon blinked, surprised. Papa was crying? He never cried! He was the strongest person Aemon knew. He gripped his dragon tighter. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled again. He sniffed. “I thought I could come over here now…now that I have a dragon.”

“Dragon?” Papa realized then that he was holding a dragon. He laughed, but it sounded almost like the bark from Zokla. He reached and lightly touched the dragon’s head. “Gods, Aemon.” He looked so sad again. “Aemon, why? Why did you do this?”

It all came out then. He started to cry again, sniffling and wiping at his eyes, sobbing about how no one cared about him. No one let him play with them and Lya took everything and Joren was stupid and little and he couldn’t do anything right. “All I have is my dragon,” he cried. 

Papa laughed, but it came out almost like a sob. He reached for him and drew him tight. Aemon closed his eyes, his face buried into Papa’s chest. He hugged him tight. “Oh Aemon…how long have you had the dragon?”

“I don’t know. Weeks.” Another ‘gods’ escaped from Papa’s lips. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he kept holding him. He didn’t want Papa to be angry but it seemed like he wasn’t angry right then. He pulled his face back and sniffed again. “I don’t feel like a Targaryen sometimes,” he mumbled. He wasn’t good at fighting. He didn’t speak Valyrian as well as Lya. Joren was better at climbing trees and stuff. He was just Aemon. Stupid Aemon. 

Papa laughed and pulled back a bit to look at him. He shook his head. “Gods Aemon, you could not be more Targaryen if you tried.” His fingers brushed over his curly hair. “Your hair is like your mother’s. Your eyes…you certainly have the Targaryen temper.” He picked up his hand and kissed the palm, squeezing tight. “And you can touch fire. You’re more Targaryen than even I am, I think.”

“But you’re a king.”

“Yes I am,” Papa said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He lifted his eyebrow and his eyes twinkled. “But you know what Aemon? I’m scared a lot. I’m scared of making sure that everything stays peaceful and good. I’m scared something will happen to you and your brother and sister. To your mother. I just want to make sure everything is peaceful.” He brushed his fingers through his hair again and Aemon closed his eyes; it felt nice. “And yes, I am a Targaryen, but so are you Aemon. I don’t know why you think you wouldn’t be.”

“Because I didn’t have a dragon and I’m not good at stuff.”

“You’re just a boy,” he laughed. Papa smiled again. “And you’re my son. You’re your mother’s son. You need to work hard. You’re good, Aemon, you’re so good but you need to work hard…you want to be a king? It isn’t easy. It’s never been easy for the good ones.”

The good kings, he thought, ducking his head again. He peered down at his dragon. “Aemon wasn’t a king,” he mumbled. 

“Aemon Targaryen was not a king,” his father agreed. He tilted his face back up to meet his. “But he was one of the greatest Targaryens there ever was. He was one of the greatest men there ever was. That is why I named you after him. Why your mother named you after him.”

He blinked a few times, thinking of the book that he’d been reading. He looked back up again. “Why?” 

“Because he had to work hard. Harder than anyone. He was tested many, many times and he succeeded in each of those tests. He survived and he was good and kind and he was the blood of the dragon.” Papa tapped his fingers to his heart. “Just like you.”

I am the blood of the dragon, he thought, peering down at the red ball in his lap, the little dragon curled into his wing, dozing. He looked back up to Papa. “I want to be like him. I want to be a king one day.”

Papa smiled, but simply pulled him close again, whispering. “You’re still a child, Aemon. You can figure out how to be a king one day, but for now you are still my child.” He sighed. “And I just want you to be one for as long as possible.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he whispered. He sighed hard. His brow furrowed and Aemon worried he’d angered him, but Papa’s voice remained calm and quiet. “Because your mother had to grow up too young. Because I had to grow up too young. You are very lucky Aemon. You have no idea what we had to endure at your age. We just want you to be happy.”

“But I’m not,” he protested. He looked out at the water. “I never get what I want. Everyone gets what they want but me.”

There was a pause. “Is that why you ran away?”

“Yes.”

Papa reached around and hugged him again. After a long time, he pulled back. “I have not been spending a lot of time with you. I’m sorry for that. I’ll fix it, I promise. You and I, we make sure to spend so many hours together. The same amount as Lya or Joren, I promise.”

It sounded alright, he thought. He wrinkled his nose. “What about Mai?”

“I’ll talk to her. She will do the same. She’s terrified right now Aemon, she is so scared someone took you or hurt you.”

“But why?” he demanded. They never ever answered that or told him how come he couldn’t see council meetings or go to Braavos or travel around everywhere. He scowled. “I want to see things. I can’t.”

Papa stiffened a bit. He took a deep breath and slowly released it. “Because,” he said quietly. “Because there are still people out there who might want to hurt your mother. Who might want to hurt me. The easiest way to do that is to hurt one of you guys.” 

“Oh.” 

They were quiet for a bit longer; all Aemon could hear was the thud of his father’s heart beneath his ear, wondering if he had ever been as scared as he had been, waiting for someone to find him. He peered up, frowning a little, trying to understand. “Papa.”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever been scared?” Papa was strong and he could ride dragons and he could shoot arrows and swing a sword. He could even beat Mai in single combat when they fought and Mai had Dark Sister. Papa was never scared.

“Yes. A lot.”

Aemon peered up, eyes wide. “Really?” But Papa was…he was Papa! He was a wolf and a dragon! How was it even possible? 

Papa smiled and laughed a little. He looked at the dragon and lightly touched its head, eliciting a purr from the baby dragon. He shook his head slightly. “You know Aemon, sometimes it isn’t about being strong or knowing everything…you have to be scared sometimes. Means you’re human.”

“When were you scared?”

“Well other than when we couldn’t find you?” Papa tilted his chin up, peering down at him and sighing, shaking his head again. “All the time, Aemon. When I’ve been in battle, when I was waiting for you and your brother and sister to be born…when I rode a dragon for the first time.”

“Really!?”

“Yes,” he laughed. He looked over at Eddarion who ducked his giant head down, a happy sound coming from the back of his throat. The tiny dragon hopped up and down, purring and chirping at the full-grown one. Papa stood, carefully lifting him up, gentle with the hurt ankle. “Come on Aemon. Let’s get you home…your mother is beside herself and I do not want to find out what she might do if we wait any longer.”

They got up onto Eddarion and he cradled his baby dragon. He felt Papa’s arms around him tight, not allowing him to even move as the giant dragon took off from the edge of the cliff and flew out and over the top of the thick blanket of trees. The dragon was careful and gentle, landing with a whisper of wings and lowering his haunch so they could descend carefully. 

Mai ran out of the bunch of trees at the edge of the clearing, screaming in Valyrian. She was speaking so fast, he could barely understand her, tears streaming down her face and her hands smacking at Papa. “Oh Aemon!” she cried, grabbing him around his shoulders, his face crushed to her shoulder. “Oh my baby, are you alright? Are you hurt? Where are you hurt? Oh your ankle! Oh my gods, let’s get you…Jon! You…” Another stream of Valyrian as she smacked at Papa, who simply hugged her and she began to sob, collapsing against him. 

He was scared a little; Mai had never acted like this before. “Is she alright?” he whispered, standing on his one good ankle, still holding the dragon. 

Papa chuckled, kissing the top of Mai’s silver head. “She will be fine. She’s a mother, she’s…processing.” 

“Oh you stupid, stupid man!” Mai cried, smacking at Papa’s chest again with the back of her hand. She turned around and gripped him again, kneeling down to his height. Her violet eyes were as wide as saucers. “If you ever…ever…”

“Dany…we already talked. It’s going to be fine.”

Aemon swallowed hard, fully prepared for Mai’s wrath. He had been on the receiving end of it more times than he ever wanted, for things he may or may not have deserved, but in the end, she simply dropped into him, cradling his head against her shoulder and muttering to him in Valyrian like she used to do when he was really little. He wished she did it more often, he thought, closing his eyes and hugging her tight. She smelled like lemons today. 

She broke away and ordered Papa to help him to the house so she could set his ankle, talking about how Joren and Lya were beside themselves with worry, and she would get him hot broth and a warm blanket and get him in front of the fire before he caught a chill. “And the dragon needs food too,” he said. 

“Dragon?”

Papa chuckled, nodding to the little dragon that had been very quiet on the walk to the house. “Yes, it seems we have a new addition to the family, just in time for Aemon’s name day.”

Mai took the dragon, speaking to it softly in Valyrian, her touch gentle as she stroked the scales and flicked her finger around his tail and touched his wings. She said nothing when they entered the house, but that was fine because Joren and Lya both jumped up from the chairs near the fire, chattering and grabbing for him. He smiled a little, glad that his brother and sister at least didn’t hate him or anything. Plus, they were happy to see him, which was also nice. 

“Did you see a bear?” Joren asked.

“No, but I did…” he could barely speak about his dragon before Lya cut him off. 

“How was it spending the night in a cave? Did you see a ghost?”

He shook his head. “No, but…” 

Joren let out a wolf-like howl, throwing himself off the chair and towards the table in the kitchen, grabbing for the dragon he just noticed. “A dragon! Is it mine!?”

Aemon scowled, trying to reach over, but Papa was holding his ankle steady. “Hey!” he exclaimed, as his stupid brother made a move for the dragon. He did not even notice Papa was gripping his ankle and howled in pain when it snapped back into place, just as Mai dropped his dragon into his arms. The dragon let out a similar howling sound, feeding from his pain. He sniffed, blinking back tears. “Ouch,” he cried, wiping at his eyes. 

Neither of his siblings noticed, they were busy trying to see the dragon. “I want my dragon!” Joren exclaimed. “It isn’t fair!”

“Yours is not time yet, it was time for Aemon’s,” Mai explained. She sat beside him, her arm going around his shoulders. “So Aemon…have you decided on a name for him?” 

A name? 

It had been a few weeks but he did not really know. He smiled a little and touched his dragon’s head. He looked over at Papa. “What’s your name, Papa?”

Papa laughed. “You know my name, Aemon. It’s Jon.”

“No, your other name.” The Targaryen name, he thought. Mai said that Papa had two names. The name he was born with and the name he got as a child, to protect him. He couldn’t remember it though. 

Everyone stared at Papa, even Mai was smiling at him. He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. A brief smile again. “My name is Aegon. Aegon Targaryen.”

Like Aegon the Conqueror. Like…he lifted his eyes from the dragon to Papa. “Aegorax,” he whispered. The creator of the dragons. Or like Papa. Papa named his dragon after his father, he remembered. Eddard. Eddarion. He smiled down at the dragon, lifting him up. “Aegorax is your name.”

Aegorax let out a little cry and sneezed, tiny flames flying from his snout. “I guess he is okay with his name,” Mai said with a laugh. 

Lya rolled her eyes. “I still think Daenys is the best name, after Daenys the dreamer.”

“I want my egg to hatch!” Joren howled. 

Aemon leaned back in the chair as Mai began to fuss about him, propping his ankle on pillows, wrapping it up and bringing over salves and oils to help with the healing. Lya even threw a fur over him, but he wasn’t sure if it was to keep him warm or if it was just because she was being a stupid big sister. She went upstairs, complaining over how dumb they all were being because he was just Aemon and all that, but he smiled anyways, pulling the fur off his face. 

He peered down at Aegorax, who was watching the bustle around the home with wide eyes. “This place can get really weird sometimes,” he told the dragon, as two of the three wolves ran through the house. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ghost disappear out the back door, away from the younger wolves. “But it isn’t so bad. One day, I’ll be a king though, and you will be my king of dragons.” 

Aegorax sneezed again, lighting the fur on fire. He chortled, flapping his wings and rising on his tiny twig-like legs.

Aemon snuffed the fire out, grinning. 

He supposed that was an agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ages:  
Lya- 12  
Aemon- 8 (turning 9)  
Joren- 7 (turning 8)


	3. Joren & Barristys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Joren's nameday and he gets more than just a dragon.

“Hey!”

The redheaded girl laughed, a light melody softening the biting air around them. She knelt again, packed together another ball of snow, and hurled it against him, smacking his face with perfect aim. He shouldn’t have been surprised; she was the best shot with a bow he had ever seen, even better than Auntie Arya. She laughed again, the hood of her rabbit fur coat falling back to reveal all that wild red hair. “You’re too slow, crow!”

Slow? Crow! Joren scowled, grabbing a bunch of snow in his bare hands, the cold never bothered him like it did others, and chucked the ball at her, smacking her in the shoulder. He barked a laugh and ran off, dodging snowballs and jumping over the drifts, occasionally making one of his and hurling it back. “I’m not a crow!” he shouted.

“Look like one! That’s what Tormund says!”

He scowled again, turning and running off back to the camp, holding the fruits of their hunt in his hand—a couple of ducks he’d shot from the sky. Well, one of the ducks he’d managed to get, she had gotten the other with a clean arrow right to the eye. Best shot, he thought with a smile. He burst through the trees, holding them aloft. “Dinner!”

Tormund looked up, clapping his hands together. “Ah! Perfect timing Little Crow!”

“Tormund, you know I’m not a crow, right?”

“Bah, look just like your papa when he was one of them crows.” His bright blue eyes sparkled, darting between him and the girl, who was shedding her large fur since they were among the fires of the campsite. He squinted. “Watchoo’ doin’ with Iona there?”

Joren flushed pink; he had had a terrible liking of Iona since he’d met her several years ago, on his first real journey to the true North. He had never really interacted with kids other than his brother and sister. Iona was something else. She was brash and she was kind and she could really shoot an arrow. She had wild red hair which she just let free. He had been mortified to discover that she was an orphan, but essentially raised by Tormund of all people. He was practically her father. “Um, nothing,” he mumbled. “Just huntin’.”

Tormund shook his head, his laughter booming. He clapped his back. “Oh Joren, you’re as shy as your father! Must be in the blood.” He punched his shoulder again. “Gods know how your father managed to snag your mother. Didn’t think he had the stones. You got the stones to go get a free folk girl, boy? You better, because she will eat you alive.” He withdrew his knife and held it up, the blade glinting in the firelight. “And if she don’t then I will.”

Joren’s gray eyes took up most of his face, stunned. He stammered, unsure what to say. He was mortified to hear his mother and father spoken about like that, but also terrified at Tormund, the man he considered an uncle, trying to convince him to make some sort of a…a move of all things! With his daughter! “Um…I…I…ah…”

The older man let out another roar, slapping his knee and tossing the knife aside. “Oh my Little Wolf Crow! You are your father’s son! C’mere boy!” He grabbed him in a sidesplitting hug, all but lifting him off the ground. “Come on now, let’s get these ducks in the fire. It is your nameday after all, right? We feast!”

Yeah, he thought, flushing again when Iona caught his eye across the camp. Her furs were gone, replaced with a pretty wool dress over breeches and boots, leather gauntlets on her forearms and a leather jerkin over the dress’s bodice. She smiled at him, giving a tiny wave. His eyes widened again and he turned his head quickly, stumbling to his tent. Gods, he was a fool! He shrugged off the heavy furs, coated in snow, and knelt in front of the fire. He was not as immune to it as his brother or mother, but his egg was only in the coals in the front and not as hot as he tugged it to him. 

He lifted the egg, scowling at it. Lya and Aemon’s eggs hatched right around their namedays. He always tried, sticking it in the fire, dropping enough blood on it when he turned ten that his mother thought he was dying, and yet the dragon stayed inside its shell. Maybe it was broken, he thought, sighing. Maybe it was really dead. Maybe he wasn’t a dragon. Not like Lya or Aemon. They were the real dragons. They had the silver in their hair and they could stand fire longer than him. Lya looked like their mother, just with darker hair and eyes. Aemon was the spitting image of her. 

On the other hand, Joren thought he had been lost a birth and found, if he did not appear to be a copy of his father, with the same unruly black curls he tried to tame into a knot most mornings, before they sprang free by the day was done. Gray eyes that could look brown or black. Mai always said that sometimes she thought there were violet in them, but he wasn’t so sure. He looked up when the tent flicked open. “Papa,” he greeted.

Papa studied the egg in his arms, sighing. “You’re going to try again this year?”

“One day,” he vowed. He sighed. “Unless it’s dead.”

“It’s just not the dragon’s time yet.”

That was what they always said. He wasn’t so sure. It seemed more than just that. He was more wolf than his siblings Mai always said so. Auntie Arya told him that he had the ‘wolf’s blood.’ He tucked his egg into the furs he’d shed, carrying it outside, and returning to the great bonfire, where Tormund was happily throwing in dried leaves and twigs. 

It was somewhat of a celebration, his nameday, he figured, as well as the free folk celebrating the full moon. It was going to be a nice night, he could tell, looking up and watching the sunlight begin to hide, the moon’s shadow beginning to show. He looked sideways at Papa, who was frowning at him slightly. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Papa flashed a quick smile. He nodded up towards the sky, Eddarion soaring overhead. “I am going to leave tomorrow, head to Bear Island. Your mother wanted me to take stock of the castle and grounds there.”

Bear Island was where his namesake was from. He’d heard plenty of stories from Mai, of her sworn shield Jorah Mormont, who died defending her and loved her until his last breath. Her old bear, she always called him, and he’d named his great black direwolf Bear in honor of his namesake. He had not been to Bear Island, but he knew no one had lived there in many years. The Mormonts had died out in the Battle of Winterfell. He was sorry for it, he would have liked to have met Lyanna Mormont, for he heard she was quite something to reckon with. 

He stepped over to the fire, still holding his egg, and studied it. “I’ll be back,” he said, turning around and returning to the tent, setting his egg back into the fire. He stepped back out, coming nose-to-nose with Iona. Iona had bright blue eyes, just like her father. She was really pretty, he thought. His eyes widened.

Where did that come from!?

“Can I see your dragon egg?” Iona asked. Her accent was similar to his father’s, the northern burr that he sometimes had in his voice, but that had bypassed his siblings. He supposed it was because he spent as much time as he could with his father. 

His cheeks warmed. “Um…maybe later?”

Iona’s sparkling eyes shuttered immediately, turning to chips of ice. She slugged her arm out, punching his shoulder. “Gods you’re thick.” She turned, storming back to the fire. 

What was that about?! He blinked a few times, trying to process it. Gods, girls were so strange. He trudged over to the fire, plopping down hard on the bench beside his father. Tormund came over and sat on his other side. He shook his head. “King Crow, your son is as bad as you are when it comes to the ways of women.”

“What?” 

They both said it at the same time. He turned pink again when his father gave him an odd look and then turned to look over at Iona, who was glaring in his direction, angrily plucking the feathers from the ducks. Papa leaned in, voice soft. “Um…what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!”

Tormund shook his head, barking a laugh. “Gods, you both are thick.” He leaned over and pushed at Papa, knocking him off the bench and into the snow behind him. That started a brawl, both of them knocking at each other, flying into the snow, fists and feet kicking. Joren studied it, as he always did, watching as both of them fought. It was always in good fun and he picked up a few moves here and there to remember in the event he ever needed to get into a brawl.

As he studied the right hook his father gave to Tormund, he did not even notice that his egg had gone missing. He saw the blur of someone moving away from where he’d placed it beside him, and yelped, forgetting the fun and took off. Iona laughed, holding the egg in her arm, and threw a taunt over her shoulder. “Come and get it!”

“Hey! Iona! Give it back!” 

He chased after her through the trees, jumping over fallen trunks and stumbling through snowdrifts. The sun had disappeared and now the moon was out in its full glory, the snow glowing silver from its light. He barely noticed the bright blues, greens, and purples that began to shimmer around him, from the colorful lights in the dark sky. Maybe they were out for my nameday, he thought, like a child, but forgot it as he ducked into a cave near a stream where Iona had disappeared. 

At some point she must have grabbed a torch, because the inside of the cave was illuminated, a small waterfall falling over some of the rocks into the hot springs. He flushed, taking a few breaths as Iona stuck the torch in between two rocks, sending the walls into a deep orange. He looked around, unfamiliar with this place. “Where are we?” he asked.

“I wanted to show you something.”

“You could have just asked!”

Iona rolled her eyes, gently placing the egg on the rocky ground, still nestled in its furs. She snorted. “I don’t know if that would have worked.” She grabbed his wrist, tugging him with her towards one side of the cave. He felt a heat shoot through him and his cheeks flushed even deeper red and his eyes dropped to the ground as she smiled at him. She had a really pretty smile. She pulled him with her, stopping before a part of the wall, towards the floor of the cave, and pointed. “Look.”

They knelt and he saw in the dim glow from the torch that there were carvings in the wall. Spirals and shapes. Pictures of small people, like children. Trees. Wolves and bears. “Oh gods,” he murmured, his fingertips going to touch. His eyes widened in understanding. “It’s the Children of the Forest.” Father told him stories. Stories that he’d heard from his Old Nan, when he grew up at Winterfell. Mai told him about dragons and the tribes of the East and the shadowbinders and witches of Essos. Father told him about the Children of the Forest and the Old Gods of the Forest. He told him about revering nature and what the world provided, because you never knew when it would be taken away. 

He stood, still looking at the carvings, and did not realize that Iona had returned to where his dragon egg was sitting. She had created a small fire and was warming her hands. “You should have brought your coats,” he chastised. 

“I wasn’t thinking about that.”

“Well what were you thinking?” He was irritated. Gods knew how far they had run. It was nighttime. It was cold. He didn’t even have his sword on him or anything. Or a bow. What if they encountered a bear or something? He wondered if Bear was with him. Likely the wolf was nearby, he never went too far. He took the dragon egg, setting it into the flames that had started rising, warming the cave quickly. 

Iona glared at him. “Are you a Prince?”

“No.” 

“Lord Joren,” she teased. She smirked. “Lord Dragon? Lord Wolf? What do they call you where you’re from?”

“I’m not a Lord.” Or a Prince. Or whatever you may want to call him. His father was a King. His mother was a Queen. He scolwed into the flames. “I’m just Joren.” He peered sideways. “Like I’ve always been.”

Iona smiled again. He realized she had dimples. She leaned closer to him, her blue eyes narrowing. “Well then…I don’t want it to be like it’s always been.” She squinted, her brow furrowing to a frown. “When are you going to kiss me?”

Kiss!?

He gaped; he…he…he never thought about kissing her! Although as she stared at him, he swallowed ahrd, his throat suddenly dry as dust. “Um…”

Iona rolled her eyes again and grabbed at the front of his tunic, jerking him forward. It was so sudden, he fell forwards, knocking her off the rock where she was sitting, and he flung his hand out to catch himself, scratching his palm on a rock by the fire. He scrambled backwards, stammering an apology as she laughed, sitting in the dirt. “If I wanted an apology I wouldn’t have kissed you,” she said. 

His hand hit his egg and knocked it sideways. He glanced idly at it and pushed it back into the fire, feeling the heat warm the cut on his palm. He swallowed hard again. “Um…so…” He felt like a fucking fool. He ducked his head again, biting at his lower lip. Iona kissed him! And he could barely function! He smiled a little when she stood, but she didn’t come to him. 

Her blue eyes went dark, like midnight, and she shook her head, her voice soft. “Forget it. You clearly do not feel the same.” She moved to snuff out the fire, but he stopped and stood. 

No, I’m just…he wasn’t sure what to say. He was the quiet of the family, his mother always told him. He did things very carefully. Until he got angry. Then gods help anyone in the vicinity, she teased. It was the wolf in him. The dragon too maybe. He smiled a little. “Um…I didn’t know…” What the seven hells was he doing? He sighed and grabbed her by her hands, pulling her forwards and kissed her again. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind he wasn’t sure if he was doing this correctly, it was his first kiss after all, and he hoped it was also Iona’s, but he also didn’t really care. She laughed against him and wrapped her arms around his neck. He broke the kiss a moment later. She patted his face, still grinning. “You’re blushing.”

He was about to say that he hoped he didn’t screw it up, when something caught her attention in the fire. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something move in the flames. He leaned back to kiss her again; he quite liked kissing now, but Iona pushed at his shoulders, moving away. “Oh…did I not do it right?” he asked. 

Iona fell to her knees, gaping. “Look.”

It was just fire. He knelt beside her and wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be seeing, until he did. The tug in his heart was immediate and it felt like all the blood started to rush through his mind, his heart pounding in his ears. He did not think, his hands reaching in and feeling the soft velvet of the scales as the hatchling moved from the embers and into his hands. The hatchling was the same sky blue as the egg and there were gray spots along its hide and over its little snout. Eyes blinked open, dark pupils set in aquamarine irises. The dragon opened its snout and a little sound came out, like the meow of a cat. 

My dragon, Joren thought, staring in a mixture of love and fascination at the creature. It had seemed like he might never get a dragon, but here it was. On his name day. Well, tomorrow was his name day, but…just in time. He laughed, bringing the dragon to his chest, where it nuzzled and then hopped onto his shoulder, reaching to gum at the laces of his tunic. “It’s a baby dragon,” Iona whispered. She was equally fascinated, having not moved from her perched position. “I did not think I could ever see something like that.”

It was almost like he lived in an entirely different world sometimes. Baby dragons were part of his life. Daenys and Aegorax were the only baby dragons he had seen, but he knew that Papa had seen many. Dragons were part of his world, they were part of his family. He bit his bottom lip and offered his finger to the dragon, who nibbled at it and then coughed, a puff of smoke warming it slightly. He giggled. “Come on,” he said, grabbing at her hand. “Let’s go.”

They snuffed out the fire and emerged from the cave, hurrying back towards the campsite. He held the dragon close to keep it warm. He was not sure what would happen to a dragon born in the cold of the far north. All the others had been born in the warmth and flames of Valyria or of the island. They ran back towards the campsite, Bear catching up and woofing when he sniffed the dragon. 

Joren burst through the trees, shouting. “Papa! Papa!” 

His father turned slightly from where he was before the fire. “Joren? Where were you, we were looking…” The dragon immediately caught his attention and he grinned, coming to his feet and walking over, studying it for a moment. He lifted his gray eyes to meet Joren’s. “Told you. It was just the time.”

Joren grinned, glancing sideways at Iona, who was also smiling wide. It seemed like there was some sort of change in the air. He held the dragon close. “Iona saw him first…I didn’t even try to hatch him, it just kind of happened.”

Tormund came up beside them, patting the dragon idly and then of course, in true Tormund fashioned, focused on something else. He glanced between the two of them. “What were you guys doing building a fire and all that?” He squinted again. “And where did you go?”

Um…Joren and Iona exchanged a secretive look. She simply smiled, unashamed, but he knew he was giving away everything, with his flushing cheeks and his eyes averting to the dragon, focusing on it and not on Tormund’s roaring laugh and Papa’s sigh. “It was just a kiss!” he exclaimed.

Iona smacked his shoulder. “Go tell everyone then! Gods you’re dumb!”

“Your son, King Crow, that is your fucking son if I had no doubt.”

Papa simply sighed, but his cheeks were also pink. He patted his back. “Welcome to the club son, prepare for Tormund to torture you mercilessly.”

“Even more than he does,” he mumbled.

“Oh it’s going to get worse.” Papa studied the dragon, still cooing happily in his arms. He hugged him tight against his side. They walked over towards the fire, the dragon immediately moving towards the flames. After feeding it some meat, the dragon happily munching down on some of the elk from the previous evening, Joren looked over at Papa, who was still studying him with a different look. Something he hadn’t seen before. It seemed to be like he was thinking of something from a long time ago. 

Jorenc ocked his head. “What?”

Papa smiled, but it dind’t really meet his eyes. He looked into the fire. “Did I ever tell you about when I first met Tormund? When I was living with the free folk?”

“I know you were sent to spy on them, but you became their friend.”

“I did my duty, but there was another…” he trailed off and then his eyes crinkled in the memory. “There was a girl too. Kissed by fire. I loved her.” He glanced towards Iona, nodding. “She reminds me of her sometimes.”

Joren turned pink again. “What about Mai?”

“Oh your mother and I love each other, of course. She was married before me you know,” Papa said, as though explaining. Joren knew, but he didn’t like to think about it. Mai and Papa were…well they were Mai and Papa! He didn’t like thinking of them being all in love and stuff. Gross. He sighed. “Your mother is truly something…I wish she’d come up here and now then, she’d love the lights.” They both peered up at the lights, the pretty colors moving like waves in the sky. 

Joren looked back over at Iona, who was studying him with a knowing smile. He grinned back. “Hey…Papa.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I love her.”

Papa followed his gaze to Iona, who winked and returned to talking with the other girl sitting beside her, giggling together at whatever secrets theyw ere sharing. He shook his head, chuckling. “I’m sure you do son. Just be parepared. You do nknow how free folk women take their men.”

Oh he ahd heard stories. Knives to the throat and all that. “Papa! We’re just kids. I don’t want to marry her!”

“Well that’s a relief,” Papa said with a bark of a laugh. He nodded to the dragon. “So…now you have your dragon. What’s his name?”

It had seemed like he might never get to this moment, but Joren knew exactly what he would name his dragon. He was named after his mother’s sworn shield, Jorah Mormont, and he had heard stories of the other, the other knight who came to her aid when she needed it most and died protecting her from evil. He wanted a dragon that would honor that, just like she had honored him. “Barristys,” he announced. The dragon looked up, hopping in place and chirping. “His name is Barristys, after Ser Barristan Selmy.”

Papa lightly stroked the dragon’s snout. “I think the Stormlands will be glad to hear that. You should write to the Storm King and tell him.” Lord Gendry, Joren thought idly, the Storm King of the Stormlands. A title that Papa had bestowed on him, when they last met, to thank him for his service to the realm. 

Joren nodded; he would do that. He didn’t want to leave yet though. He liked it here, among the Free Folk. The bite of the cold winds, the way the snow felt under his feet, and the warmth of the furs at night. He wasn’t sure how Barristys would enjoy it, but with his sky blue coloring, he might as well have been like holding a little ice dragon. He glanced at his father. “When you go back to Valyria can…can I stay here for a bit longer?”

The look he received was filled with the warm happiness he often saw when Papa was with his siblings or with Mai. It was like how he looked when he was teaching him to swing a sword or shoot a bow and arrow. Papa grinned. “You can stay as long as you want Joren. You have the True North in you. More even than me.”

Good, he thought, looking back into the fire and watched as Barristys hopped off his arm and went to warm himself, spreading out his little wings and fluttering them, fanning at the flames. “Thanks Papa,” he said softly. 

Papa gave him a tight hug. “Happy name day Joren.”

**Fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ages:  
Lya- 21  
Aemon- 17  
Joren- 16
> 
> There may be more coming with the adventures of Joren and Iona-- I'm not sure. If you go back to the original fic's epilogue, you'll see Joren is the ranger in the north and he has Longclaw. I might explore that, still thinking about the plot. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Kepa and Ave mean Father in both High Valyrian and Dothraki, respectively. 
> 
> Mai and Muñnykeā mean Mother in Dothraki and High Valyrian, respectively.


End file.
